The chain link fence is six feet tall.
Taller
Than the average man
Smaller than the past tense of youth
Back when sneakers and two good feet
Were all we needed
To climb over and land
On the green concrete.
Inside are the good days
Preserved in fresh paint
And worn rackets
Trimmed grass
Games played beyond nightfall
And a yellow ball
That can't fly over the net anymore
So it follows the wind, keeping within
The white lines of the court.
No one is keeping score
Of what we've won or lost
For we can't count life on our fingers
But on a good day
With some sun, a ball and a couple of mates
We'll skip the shortcut
Pass through the gate
And let the tennis ball fly.